22 Things
by WikketKrikket
Summary: ...A Woman Should Know When She Loves A Man With Aspergers' Syndrome. Sherlolly prompts based on chapter titles in the book by Rudy Simone. (Discontinued)
1. There Will Be Loneliness

A/N: These few one-shots were written for my sister a looooooooong time ago. I never did manage to do all 22 Things, but she did convince me to post those I'd done. The chapter titles are based on those in the book. Enjoy!

1. There will be Loneliness

On Christmas Eve, Molly had gone over to Sherlock's flat again for a Christmas drinks party. Not that it was Sherlock who invited her, of course, it was John who had text her about it. Sherlock had her number too, he had just never used it; except that one time when he had text 'Do you have any spare thumbs? I need some. SH', which didn't count because it was business. She had still kept it though, silly, sentimental person that she was. She liked the way he text, with full punctuation and grammar. John, on the other hand, was clearly not tech savvy, as his message had come in full capitals: 'CHRISTMAS DRINKS AGAIN CHRISTMAS EVE 7PM JW'. This was soon followed by 'IGNORE SH HE IS COMING JW', so Molly was forced to assume Sherlock had been voicing his protest to someone else in the text message round-robin. Not to her, though. Naturally.

The invitation had sent Molly into agonies of choices. After the humiliation of the previous year, she almost didn't want to accept, but if she said no, everyone would think she was still embarrassed. So she said yes, but the problem was, everyone would be _thinking _about the previous year. It was a Catch-22. If she dressed up again, it would be even more of a reminder of what had happened; if she didn't, people would think she was too hurt or embarrassed by last time. It was the same with getting a gift for Sherlock. People would notice if she did, and if she didn't. It was a social situation that was impossible to navigate. In the end, after several days of worry, she settled on bringing with her a large tin of chocolates instead of individual presents and to dress in jeans and a nice top. Still, it worried her. The idea of going was only slightly more bearable than the idea of _not _going.

Yet, in the end, she found herself in Sherlock's flat, on Christmas Eve, and nobody was talking to her. It wasn't that they were deliberately excluding her, she had just gone to the toilet at the wrong moment and conversational groups had formed without her. John and Lestrade were talking about the pub football league, while Mrs Turner from next door was gossiping with Mrs Hudson about people that the other one didn't know, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Sherlock, as usual, was ignoring everybody, sitting at the table, looking over some document. Molly's attempts to engage him in conversation had failed so absolutely that she knew he must have been thinking about last year because he had none of the easiness he had with her in the morgue. She put up with this for some time, but no-one spoke to her, no-one noticed her discomfort or how out of the loop she was. She was bored, but worse than that, she was starting to feel lonely; and loneliness at a party was the worst kind. She would rather go back to her flat and her cat and watch Christmas films to fill the place with sound that wasn't exactly talking to her either, but was at least meant to be listened in on. Her mind made up, she said her goodbyes, assured Mrs Hudson she didn't need to see her out and went downstairs.

One thing Molly hated about winter was how long it took to leave anywhere because of all the layers you had to get on; coat, scarf and gloves. She was buttoning her coat when she heard someone coming downstairs. To her surprise, it was Sherlock; looking furtively behind him as he came. He seemed awkward, almost nervous.

"Um… are you alright?" Molly asked.

"Yes." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I wanted to give you this. I'm sorry it's not wrapped, but…" He trailed off and thrust a box at her. Mystified, she took it, unable to deny her heart was racing a little. Sherlock had got her a present. Unfortunately, when she looked at what she had in her hands, her joy would soon turn to mortification.

It was an unopened pack of disposable rubber gloves, just like the ones she used at work every day, and the ones Sherlock used in his own examinations. It seemed obvious what had happened. After she had come downstairs, John had probably told Sherlock he had to give her a present to make up for the year before, and this was the best Sherlock could lay his hands on in the few seconds available to him, a box of gloves from his supply. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, ashamed still at the humiliation of last year. Sherlock was hovering, obviously uncomfortable but waiting for her to speak.

"I hope they're alright." He blurted.

"No, no, they're wonderful, thank you." Molly said, forcing herself to smile. Then she realised something odd. The gloves were a different brand to the ones she used at work. Not that it would make any difference to what was inside, but they were made by a different company. Sherlock, however, used the same brand as she did, she knew he did, because he always made her steal them from the St Bart's supply cupboard for him. Her smile became genuine as she realised what it meant.

Sherlock must have gone out and bought these, for her, specifically; using what he knew best about her: her work, where the one-size-supposedly-fits-all gloves were too long for her fingers. He must have noticed, because this brand obviously came in sizes, and these were small. He had thought about it, he must have really thought about her and what to get her. True, it was a fairly awful present- no girl wants disposable gloves for Christmas, especially not when it seemed to suggest their work was the most important thing about them- but Molly didn't care. She couldn't stop smiling. The gloves meant the world to her.

"Good. Merry Christmas." Sherlock said, and beat a hasty retreat back upstairs.

Molly wanted to follow, she really did. She could hear them laughing upstairs, probably teasing Sherlock. She stood at the bottom, trying to make herself brave the mockery, to go back up and say she didn't have to leave after all. Unfortunately, she just wasn't brave enough, and after listening to the sounds of those inside for another minute, she went out into the cold, back to her empty flat, where she had to turn on all the lights for herself because there was nobody else there.

She put the box of gloves on her bedside table. She wanted to see them when she woke up on Christmas morning and remember that someone, at least, had thought of her a little; as much as he could, anyway.


	2. There Will Probably be no PDA

2. There Will Probably Be No Public Displays of Affection

Over the years, Molly had gotten used to spending Christmas on her own in her little London flat. It had been a little lonely at first, but now it hardly bothered her. She always got a phone call from her mother in Australia in the morning, and texts from her friends and colleagues, and there were always parties and things to go to during the week. On the day it was nice to just have some quiet time to herself.

Of course, this year she wasn't completely on her own. This year she had Toby and, aware that she was slipping further down the road to 'lonely cat woman', she had plenty of gifts to spoil him with. On Christmas morning, she opened those first; then turned to her own pile of gifts. She had a nice bottle of bubble bath from Mrs Hudson, a few novels, a scarf and some chocolate from her friends, a bottle of wine from the department secret santa, the peculiar book from (presumably) Mycroft Holmes and a box set of _Lewis _from her parents. It was lucky really, she had almost bought it herself to wrap up as a gift to herself from Toby; but had decided it was too much. After presents, she put one of her Christmas albums on at full volume, put in her roast potatoes for lunch and went to have her customary Christmas bath. She took her mobile in with her, just in case her mom called while she was in there. It had happened before. She ran the water until it was steaming hot and then filled the bath as deep as it would go, using a ton of bubble bath; her Christmas luxury. She got in with a sigh and lay back, soaking, singing along to the music. After about half an hour, her phone began ringing. As expected, her mom had the worst timing.

Still in the bath, she pulled a towel over and dried her hands, then grabbed her phone from the side of the sink. When she saw the caller ID, she very nearly dropped it into the water. Sherlock was calling her. Why was Sherlock calling her? It was Christmas day. She was _in the bath_. But he was, he really was calling her. He never called. He rarely even text. Why was he calling?

Something had to be wrong. As soon as that thought occurred to her, she had to answer, and did so.

"Hello?" She said, worried.

"Molly!" He said, his voice dripping with honey and warmth. With that, she knew everything was fine and he just wanted something. He was only this friendly when he wanted something. She knew that, but it didn't matter. It still worked. "Merry Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock…" She replied, sitting up properly, wondering what it would be this time. The water sloshed around before she realised what she had done.

"Where are you?" He asked, suspiciously.

"Nowhere!" She squeaked. "I mean, that is, nowhere… nowhere special! Just at home!" Her voice echoed horribly in the tiled confines of her bathroom.

"Are you in the bath?"

"No!"

"Why would you answer the phone when you're in the bath?" He didn't sound like he was judging her, he just sounded confused. "And why are you listening to that awful music?"

"Because it's Christmas!" She snapped.

"If you're in the bath, you must be on your own." He seemed to have remembered his purpose because his voice was warm and kind again. Molly's heart nearly stopped right then and there, and then beat with resumed vigour, trying to make up for lost time. No matter how much her logical brain tried to clamp down on it, her imagination was leaping ahead.

_He's on his own, John's at his sister's- He wants to know if I'm on my own- It _is_ Christmas- maybe he wants to- maybe he actually wants to-_

"Do you have any plans?" Sherlock asked. Molly gave up on stopping her imagination right then and there.

"N-no…"

"Then will you come down to the morgue? The duty staff won't let me in."

With that, her imagination tripped and fell flat on its face; but her brain at least had been expecting it. She considered remonstrating with him for working on Christmas day, but she supposed when you were on your own, there wasn't much else to do. Christmas was for couples, for families. She often did Christmas duty herself, if there wasn't anyone else who needed the money more. Unfortunately, not everyone approved of giving Sherlock free reign over the corpses. At least it explained why he had called. He obviously didn't think he could sweet talk her through text message.

"Alright." She sighed. "I'll be there in half an hour."

"Good." With that, he hung up. Molly shook her head and started getting ready. He could have at least said thank you.

Just over half an hour later, she found Sherlock waiting outside the morgue and, once she had smoothed things over with her colleagues (with assistance from the box of chocolates she had brought along and the repeated reassurances that she would take all responsibility), she sent them off for a tea break and let Sherlock in.

"Which body did you want?" She asked, pulling on her lab coat and gloves, hoping that this was for an important case and not just for his hobby. Sherlock sometimes forgot that other people didn't place as much importance on his experiments as he did.

"The homeless man from Thursday. And the solicitor."

"Solicitor?"

"Came in early this morning. Should be around here somewhere."

"What was his name?" Molly asked, picking up the admissions file.

"I don't know, it isn't important."

"Yes it is, unless you want to check every single drawer until we find them."

They did so. Molly thought it felt almost companionable, but then thought that might be rather morbid. Finally they found a man in his forties who Sherlock deduced to be a solicitor by the wrinkles on his forehead and he stepped back to let Molly unload. While she prepared, he looked around aimlessly, his eyes finally falling on the book sticking out of her handbag. He pulled it out, looking at it curiously.

"Oh, have you read it?" Molly asked. "I thought it was really good! I mean, I guessed-" She noticed Sherlock's expression. "Oh. You haven't read it."

"No."

"Oh, well, you should borrow it! I finished it the other day and it's really good! I mean, you'll know who did it right away but-" Then, suddenly, she realised what she was saying and who she was saying it to. "Oh, no. Of course not. Never mind." She said. "They're ready for you now."

"No… I'll read it." Sherlock said, vanishing it into his pocket.

Molly looked at him, slightly open mouthed. She hadn't expected him to take it. Why would he? Not out of politeness, Sherlock would never do that. He only did things if he had some interest. But she couldn't imagine he had an interest in mass-market crime fiction either. Frankly, she would have been less confused if he had sprouted an extra head.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice her confusion, getting to work examining the bodies, which he quickly deduced to be those of twin brothers, and their deaths to be murders. Afterwards, he stepped outside the morgue to call Lestrade, and Molly couldn't help look at the book just visible out of the top of his pocket, wondering what he wanted it for. It occurred to her, just as a slight possibility, that it was because she had said she liked it. She had said she liked it, and it was Christmas, and she had come all the way in for him. Perhaps this was just him showing affection, that he respected her tastes and opinions. The idea made her smile, and she hoped it was true.


	3. Labels and Romantic Expectations

3. Labels and romantic expectations make him feel nervous

Molly was having Christmas dinner with Sherlock Holmes, a state of affairs that she had never thought would ever exist. She was pretty happy about this, although Sherlock seemed his usual self.

She had never expected him to actually agree. She didn't even know why she had suggested it and had regretted it almost immediately, blaming the mood and the festive spirit for sweeping her away. She had babbled about the Christmas dinners in the hospital canteen and how they weren't that good but better than eating alone and anyway she was hungry and would he care to join her- and he had, for whatever reason came out of his unfathomable mind, agreed.

He was having lunch. With her. On Christmas day. True, it was from a plastic tray in the middle of the staff canteen, and the whole thing was like it had just been heated up in a microwave, but Sherlock was swallowing the dry turkey at speed. Possibly, probably, his only reason for agreeing was because now that the case was sorted out, he was hungry. Molly didn't mind; at least he was here. And Sherlock never talked much, but he didn't seem to mind her talking either. He would look at his food or look around the canteen, and just occasionally flash her a brief smile that she had seen him use enough times on John and Lestrade to know it meant 'I'm-not-listening-but-by-all-means-carry-on-if-you-like'; so she carried on, glad to know that at least she wasn't boring or irritating him. With Sherlock, that was the main thing.

"Here you go, loves." One of the canteen staff suddenly interrupted Molly's flow. "It's not Christmas without crackers, is it?" And, putting two down, she cheerily moved on to distribute them to the other tables. Sherlock picked up a cracker and idly rolled it in his thin fingers, listening to the noise.

"I think it's one of those plastic frogs." Sherlock said. "It's hard to be sure."

"Well, why don't we find out?" Molly said, surprised to see him taking such an interest. She extended a hand, but Sherlock had other ideas, and was pulling the cracker open from the seal in the side. He held up a small novelty plastic moustache in disgust.

"Somebody actually wasted their time designing this." He snorted disdainfully. Molly privately thought he was probably just disappointed it wasn't a flipping frog.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, it's more fun if you pull them." She said, offering hers to him. Sherlock looked at it in distaste.

"Why?"

"Well, because… because it goes bang, I suppose."

Sherlock said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow slightly. He looked amused now and Molly suddenly felt herself reddening. It had been a bit of a stupid answer.

"I'm sorry." She said. "It's just because I get nervous. Oh, I always say such silly things on first dates."

Sherlock's face slipped. He now looked positively alarmed. Molly froze, unable to believe she had said something so stupid. It had just slipped out. Her brain was screaming at her to laugh, to take it back, to do _something_, but the mortification had taken a strong hold and she was unable to do anything but gape at her own stupidity.

"Molly." Sherlock said, clearing his throat awkwardly, looking incredibly uncomfortable. The sound thawed Molly out abruptly.

"No!" She blurted. "I know, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said date. I didn't mean date. This isn't a date, don't worry, I know it isn't a date. Don't worry, sorry."

Sherlock said nothing, still looking around awkwardly. Then he grabbed the cracker that was limp in her hand.

"Pull." He commanded, and, glad for the change in subject, she did. Inside was a pocket magnifying glass, which Sherlock slipped into his coat. Molly wore the paper hat and all of a sudden, Sherlock began to talk, openly and rapidly, about different types of gun powder and what made the bangers in the crackers bang. He was, Molly realised, trying to move the conversation on, to get far, far away from her blunder. She was grateful. No matter how he tried to distract her, her face wouldn't stop heating up.

"See you soon." He said, when the taxi they were sharing stopped at her house. They were just meaningless, throw away words, but she felt sure Sherlock had chosen them deliberately. Sherlock could probably see her embarrassment and wanted her to know it wouldn't change anything. The truth was, underneath it all, Sherlock was a gentleman; if only he knew how to behave as one.


	4. He Will Take You For Granted

4. He will take you and the relationship for granted

John was supposed to be home on Christmas evening, but in fact it was almost lunch time on Boxing day when his taxi pulled up outside. Hearing it stop, Sherlock left Molly's book, looked outside and built a theory based on John's body language and the time taken to pay the cab man on the quality of John's Christmas. As he came into the flat, assisted by the draught of the door being opened, Sherlock inhaled deeply and the smell confirmed his theory. He smirked.

"Hello, John." He said. "Good Christmas?"

"Yes, thank you. It was good. Very good. It was… good." John looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Just being polite." Sherlock smiled, nonchalantly returning to his book. John looked even more suspicious, but seeing as he was clearly hiding something himself, didn't press the issue, hanging up his coat. Sherlock couldn't resist. "I thought you were going to come back last night."

"Yeah, yes, um, it was so good I decided to, um, stop over at Harry's."

"Ah." Sherlock said. "How nice."

"Yes, it was, really good." John smiled. "I'm just going to go grab a change of clothes, then."

"How was she?" Sherlock asked, just as John was about to head up to his room.

"Harry? Oh, she's fine, doing really well; she seems pretty happy, all in all."

"I didn't mean your sister. I meant whichever lucky lady you spent last night with."

John looked over his shoulder in alarm, then sighed, his arm still on the door handle. "She was fine." He said. "Very nice. Very…" He cleared his throat. "But while we're on the subject, she's coming over for dinner later."

"Oh." Sherlock was not surprised, but that didn't mean he was pleased.

"I know it's pointless asking you to clean up in here, but if you could at least remove the badger from the fridge, that would be great. You can use your present."

"Alright." Sherlock agreed, feeling generous. John and Mrs Hudson had brought him a cool box for Christmas, that could keep things at a low temperature for a long time. Sherlock was secretly thrilled with it; it would make getting samples home a lot easier, and it meant John would have no excuse to throw out his experiments just because he wanted to put food in the fridge. "How many dogs does she have?" He asked.

"Three." John answered, and went upstairs, leaving Sherlock feeling slightly cheated. Considering he had agreed without argument to move the badger, John could at least have listened to his deductions when he knew Sherlock hadn't had any opportunity to since Christmas Eve. It was really rather rude. He recited them in his head instead.

_Got slowly out of the cab, he didn't want to move too quickly. He didn't stop to talk to the cabbie either, definitely a sore head. Anyway, he paid with a handful of change, John never carries change, his wallet is far too small and his pockets are still in shape. Clearly he's broken a few notes since he was last at home, no reason to do that at his sister's. So we can only assume that he has been somewhere else since his sister's, and judging by the smell of stale alcohol on his coat, it must be the pub. After all, John would never have drunk in front of his sister, who was no doubt on her best I'm-really-not-an-alcoholic behaviour. Besides, he hates his sister, he would never have stayed overnight there. Obviously things were as strained as usual and he left as early as he could after having a predictably awful time- I did tell him he would- but where can he go? It's Christmas day, he doesn't want to come back here to the least sympathetic man in the world, who is only going to say 'I told you so'. (I must tell him that). So what would he do? What all lonely single people do on Christmas day, they go down the pub; probably with Stanford, considering how much he drank, at which point he met some sort of awful woman, seduced her-_

On the _how _of the seduction Sherlock was rather sketchy. He didn't really know how it worked, but 'It's John' seemed to be sufficient.

_-Ended up back at her place, where he dumped his coat on the settee and went upstairs, leaving her dogs to roll around on it and leave hair all over it; but no dogs allowed in the bedroom, there's no hair on the rest of his clothes. It must have gone well though because it's gone noon and he isn't showering, so he must have stayed to shower at hers. He must like her, in spite of the dogs. Therefore, I should probably move my badger. _

He went and moved the badger while he was thinking about it. It fitted perfectly in the cool box and to express his gratitude he also removed some of the food that was well past it's use by date but John would probably unwittingly cook. Considering his human duty definitely done and probably somewhat exceeded, he returned to his book. A moment later, John reappeared and went to make a coffee. He seemed amazed that the badger had already been removed. He came and sat down.

"What are you reading? Is that a novel?"

"Obviously, and I'm almost finished." This was the signal that it was time for John to be quiet. John took it and settled down to his newspaper. A moment later, the novel in question flew past his peripheral vision.

"Sherlock!"

"It's wrong. And it's ridiculous."

John got up, picked up the book and started looking at it. It seemed like a typical thriller, with nothing that unusual to recommend it. "And what has it done to offend you?" He asked.

"It's wrong." Sherlock repeated. "The outcome is completely ridiculous."

"By which you mean you were wrong about who did it?"

"I wasn't wrong! The book was wrong! They completely misinterpreted all the clues, I could give you seventeen reasons off the top of my head why the so-called killer couldn't have been the one that did it."

"Yes, well, they did." John shook his head. "You'll just have to live with it." Sherlock huffed audibly. "Where did you get this anyway?" John asked. "It's a bit less serious than your usual stuff. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you read fiction published this side of 1900. What was it, a Christmas present?"

"No, if it was mine I would have burnt it." Sherlock snorted. "It's Molly's and she's welcome to it." Clearly his pride was deeply hurt by the fact he didn't beat the protagonist to the answer.

"Molly's? Wait, when did you see Molly?"

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday? Yesterday was Christmas day."

"Really, I hadn't noticed." Sherlock snapped. "Don't get excited, John. I just wanted to look at something in the morgue and I asked her to come in."

"You made her work on Christmas day?" John shook his head. "I hope you at least said thank you."

"I had lunch with her." Sherlock replied, to whom lunch and thank you were the same thing. John hoped Molly had got the message. However, he noticed some slight look of uncertainty, of discomfort in Sherlock's eyes. He sighed.

"You upset her again, didn't you?"

"No. Molly just made a fool of herself, as usual."

"You mean you made a fool of her. What happened?"

"She suggested we were on a date."

"And what did you say?" John asked, dread sinking across his chest. He didn't want to know, but knew he had to, for the sake of damage control.

"Nothing, I didn't have to." Sherlock shrugged. "She realised it was nonsense and took it back. Speaking of nonsense…" He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"What are you doing?" John asked, warily.

"I'm going to text her and tell her she has appalling taste in books." Sherlock answered, beginning his message, but the phone was whipped out of his hands before he had even realised John had moved. The doctor was getting impressively speedy and sneaky nowadays.

"Sherlock!" He said, looking horrified. Ah. Clearly Sherlock was breaking one of those social-consideration etiquette thingies, but he had no idea which and for once, John's face gave him no clues. He waited for the lecture instead. "You can't. You can't go off insulting her less than twenty four hours after rejecting her!"

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't aware he _had _rejected her. Molly hadn't given him chance.

"Just… just be nice to her for a while, alright?" John asked.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "She would know it was insincere. Even when I offend her, she gets over it. This time won't be any different."

"It might be."

"Why? People don't change."

"No, but relationships do."

Sherlock fell silent at this, pondering. He supposed what John said was true, but he hadn't thought about it before. If his relationship with Molly changed, that could be problematic.

"What do I do?" He asked.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Just… just be kind."

Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything else. If he was honest, he wasn't sure he was up to the task of this being kind business, but he would have to try. Things couldn't be allowed to change.


	5. A More Patient Approach to Sex

5. He may have a more patient approach to sex than you do

To: Molly morgue

10:13 PM

Have you ever had sex?- SH

**To: Sherlock 3**

**10:20 PM**

**What? **

To: Molly morgue

10:21 PM

I don't need to know when or who, just if. –SH

**To: Sherlock 3**

**10:23 PM**

**Why?**

To: Molly morgue

10:24 PM

That depends on what you say. Yes or no? –SH

**To : Sherlock 3**

**10:37 PM **

**Alright, yes. Why?**

**To: Sherlock 3**

**10:39 PM**

**Not recently or a lot or anything, just so you know. **

**[MESSAGE DELETED]**

To: Molly morgue

10:39 PM

I need a favour. There isn't anyone else I can ask, Molly. I wouldn't ask you if you were totally inexperienced, either. –SH

**To: Sherlock 3**

**10:40 PM**

**Well I'm not, totally.**

**To: Sherlock 3**

**10:41 PM**

**What do you need?**

**To: Sherlock 3**

**10:43 PM**

**Sherlock… did you want to come over or something?**

To: Molly morgue

10:44 PM

No, text is fine. I'm sending you a picture. –SH

**To: Sherlock 3**

**10:45 PM**

**What? Don't send me a picture!**

To: Molly morgue

10:45 PM

[Picture attached]

To: Molly morgue

10:46 PM

This is Ferret Barret. He's an informant of mine. He has some information I need, but he's not in a very good mood with me at the moment. I wondered if you could put him in a more forthcoming state of mind. – SH

To: Molly morgue

10:50 PM

He isn't dangerous, and he can be quite charming if you like council flats and gold jewellery. –SH

To: Molly morgue

10:57 PM

You don't have to worry about being pretty or seductive, his standards are low at the best of times and he's desperate right now. – SH

**To: Sherlock 3**

**11:01 PM**

**I'm not doing it, Sherlock. **

To: Molly morgue

11:02 PM

I thought you might enjoy it. – SH

To: Molly morgue

11:03 PM

You don't have to sleep with him. Just put him in a good mood. Or get him drunk. –SH

**To: Sherlock 3**

**11:04 PM**

**I said NO, Sherlock! **

**To: Sherlock 3**

**11:05 PM **

**I'm going to bed. Goodnight. **

To: Molly morgue

11:13 PM

You could always sleep with that guy in the flat opposite you. He likes you a lot and wants sex as much as you do. –SH

To: Molly morgue

11:20 PM

I'm not sure if you noticed it, but you can tell by the way the keyhole to his flat has worn. –SH

To: Molly morgue

11:33 PM

Are you actually asleep or are you ignoring me? –SH

To: Molly morgue

11:34 PM

John says you are ignoring me and that he's going to do his best to ignore me too. I think it's a joke. –SH

To: Molly morgue

11:45 PM

I seem to have done something wrong. I didn't mean to. –SH

To: Molly morgue

11:51 PM

You have appalling taste in books. This new one is even worse than the one before. –SH

To: Molly morgue

11:59 PM

Why don't they look at the solicitor's cufflinks?- SH

**To: Sherlock 3**

**00:02 AM**

**Goodnight, Sherlock! **

To: Molly morgue

00:03 AM

Goodnight. – SH


	6. Communication Will be a Challenge

6. Communication will always be a Challenge

Molly was in love with Sherlock, that was undeniable. The fact she was almost always pleased to see him in spite of her better judgement was also undeniable. However, there were times he could be insufferable, and times even she didn't want him lurking in her lab.

Sherlock was rather fond of the lab at the St Barts morgue; Molly was certain he came more to visit it then he did her on his days off. 'Days Off' was only Sherlock's name for it, to everyone else he seemed as busy as ever, but that was what he called the blank days between cases, when he had slept enough and eaten enough and nothing new was forth coming and John or Mrs Hudson threw him out before he could do too much damage to the flat; on those days he usually materialised at the morgue. Sometimes he would even have a conversation with her about any unusual bodies she'd had in recently or whatever experiment he wanted to borrow the hospital equipment for. Before long though he would get bored and sidle off over to the microscopes or the scanners and disappear into his own little world. Molly quite liked watching him at those times. It was nice seeing him relaxed and quiet for a change.

"What is it?" He asked, the first time he had caught her watching.

"Oh! Nothing." She had found herself blushing.

He had frowned at her, thinking, and then moved his arm slightly so she could see the scrawled notes of his findings. He hadn't seemed to mind her watching after that, and when she had to work, sometimes she would spot him quietly observing too. It felt nice, companionable. One day Sherlock remarked that if he ever felt the need to settle down, he would become a pathologist. Then he had laughed at the idea of him ever feeling the need to settle down. It did seem like a long shot.

It was now mid-January, and the embarrassment of their Christmas dinner seemed to have been entirely forgotten. Molly was beginning to rather enjoy herself around him again, he had been in almost every day that week, often waiting outside the morgue at the start of her shift, and it had felt rather nice.

But not today. Molly absolutely did not want him to come in today.

The message had come down from the chiropody department a few minutes after her shift had started at 8:30. The hospital inspectors had arrived. Since then, Molly's stomach had been in knots. The first thing she had done was text Sherlock and ask him to stay away, but he hadn't replied. Now she had the dread of the inspectors suddenly turning up and finding something wrong with the morgue combined with the real fear that they would arrive to find Sherlock beating up one of the corpses or seeing what happened to glow sticks if you x-rayed them. She prayed he would obey her message and stay away, and indeed, by 9 he still hadn't come. By 10, she began to think it would be okay, but at quarter to 11, he suddenly walked in.

"Sherlock!" She yelped in surprise. "Didn't you get my text?"

"Yes." He said. "Just over two hours ago. I assumed whatever mourning relatives you didn't want me to upset would be gone by now and I was bored of waiting."

"No, Sherlock, you don't understand, that's not why- Hello!" This shrill greeting was admittedly not the way she would have chosen to say hello to the inspectors, had she been prepared for their arrival. She probably also wouldn't have chosen to shove Sherlock back into the counter in an instinctual but entirely ineffectual attempt to hide him. Sherlock looked at her, puzzled.

"Nice to meet you." She stammered, shaking the inspectors' hands and nodding at her boss, who was showing them around and glaring at Sherlock. "I'm Molly Hooper, I'm the pathologist on duty today."

"Hello, Molly." The inspector said. "And this is…?"

Molly was a horrible liar. She knew she was. She also knew she could very well lose her job, if they found out she had been letting in a member of the public to use their resources and examine the corpses on a regular basis. Her brain froze up.

Sherlock had obviously realised he shouldn't say anything, because he was now glancing at her in confusion. For some reason, he hadn't deduced who these people were. Molly was shocked, but reasoned he probably didn't even know that hospitals had to be inspected. Sometimes she wondered if he even knew he was _in _a hospital, he only ever seemed to notice the morgue. This, she realised, was going to end very badly.

_Hospital inspectors! _She thought at him desperately, as loudly as she could. _Inspectors! _

"I'm an inspector." Sherlock said. In fairness to him, he said it with perfect sincerity and anyone else would have believed him, even people who didn't know there were such things as hospital inspections. Molly stared at him in horror. Had he read her mind? And if he had, how had he read it so completely wrong?

Sherlock, however, was unfazed. He blinked rapidly and Molly knew he was processing this reaction in a matter of milliseconds and the hand he had been reaching out to shake with suddenly went into his pocket and pulled out a police badge, which he flashed at them.

"Detective Inspector Gregson, Scotland Yard." He said, hiding it away again. "Miss Hooper and I had just finished, I'll get out of the way." He smiled and it almost looked natural. "Thank you again, Miss Hooper, you've been invaluable as always. Our forensics team would be glad to have you on board if you ever fancy a career change."

The hospital director beamed at Molly and the inspectors looked impressed as they jotted something down on their clipboards. Molly felt slightly weak at the knees in relief and gratitude. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Sherlock slipped quietly away.

_I love you_, she thought; but if he could really hear her thoughts, he didn't hear that one.


	7. There Will Be Shock

7. There will be shock

Molly often helped out in Sherlock's line of work, but this was the first time she actually _had _work for him. Well, she wasn't sure it was, really, he would probably work it all out in a few minutes, but it was quite mysterious to her why anyone should bother breaking into her flat in the middle of the night without her noticing simply to dump a large cardboard box full of straw.

The box had been carefully sealed with a frankly zealous amount of packaging tape, which she had kept in case Sherlock wanted to see it. There was no note with it or return address, it was simply a box full of mostly-clean straw. There were one or two strands that seemed to have been burnt, and others that were stained with something she couldn't identify with a cursory glance. She considered taking it to work and testing it, but it was a Sunday, and she thought Sherlock would enjoy doing the analysis more. Carrying the box, she went and got on a bus to Baker Street, trying not to feel too nervous. She knew if Sherlock decided this was boring she would go down in his estimations, and just when they seemed to be getting on so well.

On the other hand, if there was one person who could tell her what the box meant, it was Sherlock; and she desperately wanted to know. She knew her pulse had been elevated all morning, twitching from adrenaline and fear. It had to be some sort of cruel prank or a threat, but whatever it was, there would be worse to come. Feeling a bit sick, Molly got off the bus a few stops early, having found herself unable to stop looking suspiciously at the other passengers. The box was cumbersome and awkward to carry, but she had to manage it somehow. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had decided that if she could only show it to Sherlock, everything would be okay.

It was John, of course, who opened the door to 221B after Mrs Hudson had let her in downstairs. He took one look at the box and sighed in the way that only he could, a sigh that seemed to take up his whole face from forehead to chin.

"Hello, Molly." He said. "What are you bringing him now? Next time make him come to you, you're not a delivery service." He reached for it and Molly gave it to him gratefully.

"It's a case." She replied. "Well, maybe. I think. Or, or at least it's something I want him to clear up for me. It just appeared in the hallway this morning, I didn't know what to do, so… I came here."

"Molly, sit down, you're white as a sheet." John said, directing her to a chair before going into the box. Molly didn't bother to watch as he rummaged through, mystified. The fire was on in 221B as always; the walls were thin and Sherlock apparently felt the cold easily. Molly was glad of the warmth herself. The more she thought about the box, the more she shivered. "Straw?" John was as baffled as she was, and came and sat down opposite her. "Why would anyone send you a box full of straw?"

"I don't know." Molly answered. "I don't think it's a _threat_ or anything, I mean, why would anyone threaten me? And, and a box of straw wouldn't be a very good threat anyway. But… whoever it was got into my flat, John, and I didn't even wake up. I was there but I didn't hear a thing. What if they get in again, or…?"

John reached over and squeezed her hand. "Don't worry." He said. "Sherlock's in the shower, but he'll be out in a minute and then I bet he'll have this thing sorted out in a few minutes. And you can stay with us until it's safe to go back." With that, he bustled off to make her a cup of tea. Molly found herself relaxing. Sherlock had told her before he made John do preliminary 'interviews' as often as he could get away with it, now he knew the right questions to ask. Even Sherlock could recognise John was better at getting clients to open up, at putting them at ease.

Molly wondered if Sherlock recognised her skill set too.

John came back with the tea and turned the fire up a little, doing it in a very casual way so she wouldn't be embarrassed, but when Molly tasted the extra sugar in her drink she knew he was worried about the shock she had received. In all honesty, though, his consideration had already made her feel much better, and knowing that Sherlock would soon be on the case put her almost at ease. John started asking her things about if she had seen any unusual occurrences recently and she tried her best to answer, but almost all of the unusual things she had seen involved Sherlock, and everything else seemed normal by comparison. It was a hard question to answer.

Finally, the man himself wandered into the living room and Molly had several shocks in quick succession.

"Hello Molly." He said, self-consciously pushing up his glasses. He was wearing black framed reading glasses. They suited him, but she had no idea why he was wearing them. John looked equally surprised but Sherlock ignored it, going straight over to the box on the table. "Oh good." He said. "You found it."

Molly gaped at him.

"Are you in disguise as a reporter or something, Sherlock?" John asked.

"What?"

"What's with the glasses?"

"I ran out of contact lenses." Sherlock said, though this was news to both of them. He took the glasses off and looked at them critically. "I hate these, they make my face feel heavy. Now I see why you don't wear make-up." He added, nodding to Molly.

"Wait." John was not happy. "All those days when you're on a case and you don't eat or sleep or change clothes, does that mean you don't change contacts either? You know you'll get an infection that way."

"Why, do you change your eyes every day?" Sherlock waved away the question.

Molly did not feel this was the most pertinent line of questioning at this particular moment.

"What do you mean, I 'found it'?! It was left in the middle of my front hallway!"

"I know, I was passing so I thought I'd drop it in."

"Drop it in?! You must have broken in!"

"I didn't want to wake you." Sherlock frowned, wondering why Molly was shouting and John was looking at him in something like horror.

"Sherlock." John said. "Why have you given Molly a box of straw?"

"You told me to get rid of it after I finished the experiment. You were quite clear on that point, actually, John."

"That was six months ago! And why dump it on Molly?!"

"Because all her clothes for the last few weeks have had fluff on them." Sherlock obviously thought this was enough explanation, and look quite pained when the following silence made it clear that it wasn't. "It's obvious her cat has made a hole in it's bed. I thought she'd need something to stuff it with." Silence again, so he added "Animals sleep on straw. John, can you get me some more contact lenses?"

Molly walked out at this point. She knew Sherlock had meant well, but he was a genius. He must have known how much it would frighten her and still have decided not to bother coming back and ringing the bell later. Or, if he hadn't realised how much it would scare her, he had just been thoughtless as always. He was trying, she supposed, but sometimes it was too exhausting to cope with.

Later, she found an e-mail with a link to a lock company that promised increased security, signed SH.


	8. Not There For You in a Crisis

8. Your man may not be there for you in a crisis

John was worried about Sherlock. He was used to Sherlock skipping out on food and drink and sleep during busy cases, but for the first time he was aware of it actually seeming to take a toll on his friend. The more accurate term would be 'stressed'. Sherlock was stressed.

He wasn't the only one. Lestrade had broken and taken up smoking again; he tried to do it where Sherlock couldn't see, not that it made any difference; Sherlock spotted the bit of tobacco ash under his finger nail in less than a second. Sherlock, John knew, had a constant supply of nicotine through dozens of patches stuck all over his skin. A dangerous amount. The detective's eyes were feverish, bright, noticing everything; and still not noticing enough. John tried to help, but he was getting worn out too, with little food, little rest, constant worry and constantly being told he was useless every time he tried to suggest something. It was kids, this time, a coach full of kids, kidnapped and taken who knew where. The teachers had been found dead on the side of the road, and every day the police received another note, numbers counting down. One less child in the class. One more child dead.

Only Sherlock didn't think they were being killed. He said if the hostage taker really was killing them for effect, he would have made demands by now; he would have sent a video or a photo of the murder, not just numbers. Still, though, there were a lot of children out there somewhere, scared and alone. They had already been looking for ten days, and everyone was worried about what they were going to find.

John really thought Sherlock was going to snap for good that morning. He had suddenly got that look in his eye, the look of having found a lead, and the next thing John knew they had been in a taxi, and Sherlock had been barging into the St Bart's morgue, as usual. Only Molly wasn't in. It was a mortician named Ibsen, who refused to let Sherlock in and threatened to call security, and whom no amount of persuasion would move. Sherlock paced the corridor outside irritably.

"Where's Molly?" He said. "This is her shift. She's supposed to be here!"

"I'll call her." John answered, and did so. Molly picked up after a few rings.

"H-hello?" she said. At first John thought she had a bad cold, then he realised it sounded more like she had been crying.

"Hi, Molly, it's John. Are you alright? We were just hoping you could help us with a case, but…"

"Oh. I… I'm sorry, John, I don't think I can… I…" She took a steadying breath. "I-I've just heard, my mother's died. It was a heart attack, very sudden. I haven't even seen her for so long and now…" Now she was crying, and trying not to, and apologising. John's heart nearly broke hearing it.

"I'm sorry, Molly. Is there anything we can do?"

"Is she coming?" Sherlock interrupted, savagely.

"No-" John started to explain, but Sherlock growled in frustration and took the phone. "Children, Molly!" He snapped. "We're trying to find the kidnapped children. For all we know, a third of them are already dead. I think he might have killed before, but I need to see the teacher's body and they won't let me into the morgue."

"Oh." Molly sniffled, trying to pull herself together. "Um, well, if you get DI Lestrade to come flash his badge around then I'm sure-"

"Lestrade is half way to Birmingham by now!" Sherlock really was losing control, his temper slipping away from him. "Molly, I need you to come in!"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted. "Her mom's just died!"

"Then the morgue is probably the most appropriate place for her to be, isn't it? She can do her mother while she's at it!"

John looked at him, shocked. He hoped Molly hadn't heard, but it soon became obvious she had, and had hung up. John took his phone back.

"You're angry." Sherlock said.

"Of course I'm angry! Her mom died this morning! How can you be so heartless?!"

"She can't save her mom. She can help solve the case."

"Yes, because it's all about the case, never mind the kids, or Molly! She's right, you could just have called Lestrade, but no, you have to ring her and make sick comments about her job!"

"It was a joke, to cheer her up."

"No, it wasn't." John shook his head. "I know you struggle, Sherlock, but you know better than that. You got angry and you lashed out at Molly, of all people. That was beneath you."

"Who cares?! I will do whatever I need to if it solves the case!"

John looked at him, standing there defiant, with no hint of remorse, shook his head and walked away. He knew he was letting Sherlock down, but just then, he couldn't bear to be in the same room as him. He would cave tomorrow, help again, if only for the sake of the kids, but just then, he was going to walk until he got rid of his anger and then go home and get some sleep. Sometimes he just couldn't deal with his attitude.

Meanwhile, Molly was at home, packing to go to Australia to make the arrangements. Weirdly, Sherlock had strengthened her resolve. Before, she had been floating around listlessly, uselessly, unable to work out what she should do, where she should start. Now, the prospect of having several continents between herself and Sherlock sounded very appealing. His words kept running round her mind, hurting her, angering her; but at least it was a distraction from her grief.

Still, it was a reality check. Sherlock was who he was, and that wouldn't change; not for her, not for anyone; and she was done with him. She was sick of him and absolutely done with Sherlock Holmes.


	9. Cranky, Bad Tempered Explosion

9. Many AS males can be cranky, or have bad tempers and can explode at the slightest of things

Sherlock had sent flowers to her mother's funeral in Melbourne. She didn't know how he had found out where the funeral was being held or even how he had found out that her mother lived in Melbourne, but Molly wasn't surprised by anything he did anymore. It wasn't an apology for what he had said, but it was a start. Still, apart from the flowers and the note that had nothing on it but his initials, she hadn't heard from him at all since the incident, which is why she found herself, during the second week of February, standing on his doorstep and ringing the bell.

She didn't know why she was there. She wasn't even sure she should be. Why should she be the one to make amends all the time? And maybe he wouldn't be there. If he was, he wouldn't want her there. He only ever wanted her around in the morgue, they weren't friends, at least not in Sherlock's eyes. Molly decided to leave, but then Mrs Hudson let her in, and she had no choice but to go upstairs. John was out. Sherlock was in. It was the worst possible situation.

"Molly." He frowned at her in confusion. "I thought you were a client."

"Oh… no." Molly could tell he was in a bad mood, probably irritated that he had incorrectly deduced her identity from her knock. "How… how are you?"

"Bored." Sherlock responded, going furiously over to the window and looking out of it. "Isn't there anything interesting going on _anywhere_?!"

No wonder John had gone. Molly had never seen Sherlock like this, though she had heard about it. She wasn't sure what to do.

"Well, you sorted out that case with the kids the other week. I saw it in the papers, it was brilliant."

"It was commonplace." Sherlock dismissed. "I could have solved it a lot sooner if-" He stopped himself, but the implication was clear. If she had been there, if she had helped. But he was trying to avoid an argument so Molly didn't say anything, though the words hurt just as much unsaid. "And now John says I need _rest_. I don't need _rest_. But he threw the word _doctor _around and now Lestrade won't give me any cases!"

"Oh… well, I'm sure they're acting for the best." Molly privately thought perhaps they were right. Sherlock still looked pale and tired, thin and feverish. He looked like he needed a few weeks in bed. On the other hand, for someone as active as Sherlock, she wondered if work wouldn't have been the best cure.

"I need _work_!" Sherlock snapped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Why are you here, anyway?!" He demanded suddenly. "Do you have something for me?!"

"No, sorry, I haven't been back to work yet-"

"I thought so. Fine then." He flopped onto the sofa and turned his back on her, definitely giving her the cold shoulder. Molly wondered what she had done. "So you came here for no reason?"

"I wanted to see you." Molly tried. "Look, why don't we go somewhere? We could go for a walk or-"

"Don't be an idiot, Molly." Sherlock said. "Where is there even to walk around here? We would have to drive into the country side and if we do that then we aren't walking, we're driving. Unless we just walk round central London, brilliant idea, let's pointlessly fill our lungs with pollution and look at things we see every day! Anyway, the idea of walking for leisure is insanely pointless! Why walk just to end up back where you started?! If you have that much time to waste before you die you might as well just end it now and make the world _marginally _less dull!"

Molly was really beginning to understand why John had gone out. Her irritation over Sherlock's behaviour was returning.

"It was just a suggestion." She said. "If you don't want to, then I'll go."

"I'll walk you home, if you want to walk."

Molly was taken aback at this offer, coming as it did out of nowhere and in a tone that clearly told that Sherlock did not really want to do it. She declined. She had no idea why he had even offered. He really must have been bored.

"Don't go yet." He commanded, still sounding so cross that Molly really did just want to go. As usual, though, she did what she was told and sank tentatively onto the settee. Sherlock paced in silence for a few excruciating minutes. Molly wished John would come home.

Suddenly, abruptly, Sherlock picked up his violin and swung it up under his chin with such violence Molly was amazed it didn't hurt him. She expected him to play something frantic and enraged, but to her surprise, the tune that emerged was very un-Sherlock-like, let alone matching Sherlock's black mood. It was a sunny sort of reel, sweet and jolly, but in a calm way. It was a nice, cosy, warming sort of tune. It seemed to calm him. He finished and Molly clapped, wanting to ask what it was, but just then John walked in, and while he was greeting her and asking her about the funeral and after her health, Sherlock slunk away to his bedroom.

"Oh… I'd better not go after him." Molly said. "He seemed in a foul mood today. I don't blame you for getting out."

"Oh, no, I'm used to him by now, he's just sulking." John said. "I was worried about leaving him alone, I thought he might tear the place apart, but in the end I decided I wasn't cancelling my date plans on Valentine's Day just to stay in with Sherlock."

Molly suddenly realised what they date was and went home feeling she had just experienced something slightly strange, although she couldn't identify what.


End file.
